


He is not beyond saving; he is not beyond our reach

by flintrage



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Happy Ending AU, I had to research locations and horseback travel for this you're welcome, Implied/Referenced Torture, Miranda has agency, Multi, Sort of Thomas-centric in a way, They don't go to Nassau, Thomas is saved, Touch Aversion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 12:21:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16832503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flintrage/pseuds/flintrage
Summary: Instead of fleeing to Nassau, Miranda and James get Thomas out of Bedlam.





	1. Chapter 1

They don’t get to him _in time_ , exactly- it takes three days. But they get to him before the worst can happen.

We must do this carefully, Miranda insists, pressing her hand to James’ chest to calm him. You're one man, James, she tells him. If you rush in there and draw your sword not a single one of us will make it out of London alive. Then she says: I have another way. James scoffs at her, disbelieving and scornful of the idea that anything less than brutal violence is an option now. But he listens. Together they smooth out her plan until it sounds like something they might pull off.

Corrupt men, Miranda remarks bitterly, ransacking the house for the most valuable things in it, can always be bought. One only needs to offer a higher price. And she charms their way into a carriage, into Bethlem, and then she bribes Thomas’ way out of it, and James has promised not to fight but he knows that if she fails he will go in there and wreak havoc. 

She doesn't fail. 

When she emerges from that hell she isn’t smiling but there’s a ferocity in her eyes James has never seen before, a gleam that says: We prevail. Beside her Thomas is pale and shaken but free and _alive_. They don’t have time for a reunion. Thomas is furious with their recklessness - James can see it in his clenched jaw and wet eyes - but he doesn’t ask questions, doesn't point out how many things could have gone wrong, how many still could. None of them are willing to indulge in the luxury of terror until they’ve seen this hell through.

With night falling it’s too late for them to head to the port, and even if they did, Thomas would be recognised. Instead they head north, out of London, and with nothing left to bribe with they cannot rely on the corruption of men anymore to keep them safe during the week-long journey to the border. Instead they rely on the kindness of strangers. James seems to know instinctively who to trust and who to pass by, and time and time again people risk themselves to help them, or at the very least point them in the right direction. Time and time again Thomas thinks: this is a miracle. Then he corrects himself: miracles are God-given. This we formed with our own fallen dust and flesh. 

They cross the border into Scotland on horseback, exhausted, ragged and desperate. Thomas says: I think I would have died in there. His beloveds, glancing at one another, say nothing.


	2. I tried to feel, but I couldn't touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They take shelter in an inn during the journey. Two beds. Miranda offers to push the beds together. 
> 
> Thomas hesitates.

They find a room in an inn for the night. Two beds. When they close the door behind themselves Miranda takes off her shawl and hangs it on the back of it, then turns to the room and puts her hands on her hips. 

Well, she says, I suppose we could push the beds together. What do you think?

James is about to hum in agreement - he wants to be close to them both - when he sees Thomas shift uncomfortably by the window. As soon as he notices, Miranda does too, and their combined gazes only serve to make Thomas uneasy.

I was thinking-- He huffs, like he’s annoyed with himself for needing to say this, eyes darting to the side. Well, it’s just. I think I’d rather... I want to sleep alone, for the night.

We can’t afford another room, James says blankly. 

No, no, not _that_ alone. Separately. It has nothing to do with the two of you, it’s just--it’s just that I--

Thomas, darling, Miranda smiles, and moves to sit on the end of the bed nearest him. Wisely, she doesn’t try to touch him. She says gently: You don’t need to explain yourself to us. You have been through quite enough without having us stealing your sheets on top of it all.

Thomas gives a watery sort of smile James has never seen on him before. All three of them know it has nothing to do with the sheets and everything to do with proximity.

She’s right, James says lightly, and sits beside Miranda to start pulling off his boots. Do you want the one near the door?

Yes. Thank you. Thomas doesn’t look at them- he’s examining a shiny scar on his hand- but his gratitude is clear. He watches the two of them undress for bed, but with a sort of appreciative detachment rather than the enraptured heat they’d known before. 

When Thomas climbs into bed he doesn’t undress at all - not even his boots - and neither James nor Miranda question it. When he wakes up in the night and shifts to sleep on the floor, in the corner nearest the door, they wake too. They don’t question that either. 

Once or twice throughout that restless night, James twitches, his hands curling and uncurling the way they do when he’s aching to reach out and _touch._ Miranda wraps herself around his back, presses a kiss to his ear and whispers: _He’ll come to us when he’s ready._ James quiets, but his worries don’t ease. When Miranda sinks into sleep James doesn’t follow her.

Thomas is _right there_ , finally, but utterly untouchable. James can see the outline of him in the dark, curled up as small as his tall frame will let him on the cold floorboards. He wants to crawl down there and join him. To curl around Thomas the way Miranda has curled around him. To soothe, to _fix_. Selfishly, he wants to be held, too: to have Thomas take his face in his hands and kiss him again, like he would have before. But lying awake in the dark James is forced to make his peace with the idea that Thomas might never touch him again at all: that the cruelty of Bedlam may have irreparably damaged the part of him that once loved to touch and be touched: that he may never so much look at a hand again without seeing a weapon, a tool of restraint. 

He is, he thinks, overreacting a little: catastrophizing now that he’s left alone with his thoughts. Miranda would tell him as much if she were awake. He takes comfort in that, a little, and lets himself appreciate the warmth of her against his back, the pressure of her arm around his waist.

Thomas will come to them when he’s ready, he tells himself. Maybe tomorrow, or maybe a long time from then. They’ll get through this either way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything is sad-but-hopeful, as usual. 
> 
> Comments appreciated, so on and so forth. If you have any ideas or requests for upcoming chapters, just let me know!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are appreciated! I take requests both here and over at flintrage on Tumblr. Your support and enthusiasm fuels my writing muse.


End file.
